


Stubborn Love

by takemetoyourglory



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-01
Updated: 2013-04-01
Packaged: 2017-12-07 04:24:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/744223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takemetoyourglory/pseuds/takemetoyourglory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes what is good for you isn't what you really need.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It's better to feel pain, than nothing at all

Jehan stretched his neck until he could see all the way to the other side of the subway tracks. He loved coming down here, to write and to watch. He would create prose about the impatient foot tapper with the yellow hat, the girl with the ragged hair and tired eyes, the woman with skin so black that she reminded him of midnight. His hair would fall in front of his eyes and he would tuck it behind his ear, too distracted by the inky purple words that flowed from his pen. Every so often a train would blow past and he would hold tight to the lose sheets of paper.

Being a writer gave him more freedom than most. Although he held the steady job writing and helping with propaganda for ABC, the political activism group started by his friends, his true love lay is poetry. Whenever he had the time he would wander down to the tracks or follow a dingy old map to another unexplored part of the city. After a few years, he knew all of the best places to pick up old records and where all of the cheapest thrift shops were. He would make his way through central park on a late Friday afternoon, picking flowers to entangle in his dirty blond hair. Sometimes he waited for people, knowing precisely where they would be. He would follow the winding path of the park all the way to the 72 St. station, where he could catch Grantaire around nightfall making his way to the little teashop that allowed him to borrow the piano for a few hours. Or he would wander to the 33 St. stop, just in time to accompany Joly back from the hospital, providing an open ear to all of the horrid medical stories that he has picked up from the day's work.

His favorite station however was down by Chelsea on 11th street that happened to be next to a bar that held open mic night every Thursday. He was such a frequent visitor that the owner, a semi-famous poet, would often let him stick around to discuss literature and prose. But that was not the reason that he favored this station. He had missed the train home from the bar one late night in May because he had been staring at the stars instead of the street and so it had taken him twice as long to make it to the station. The next express wasn't scheduled for another half hour. Jehan was not one to be deterred by the seedy looking station however, and so he pulled his hair back into a ribbon and lost himself in thought.

He was chewing on his purple pen when a group of men entered down the stairs into the station to wait for the train. The men looked rough; one of them had a black eye and the other was covered in tattoos, both disheveled. A third trailed slightly behind. This man had a slightly neater appearance than the other two. He was tall and muscular, though much more athletic looking than his counterparts. He was dressed well, much better than someone frequenting this part of town.

The two brutish men approached Jehan, who had been curled in a corner, still waiting for the train. "Hey pretty little flower, where is your band of hippies? Fruit cakes like you should go back to where they came from." The larger man nudged Jehan's knee. When he looked up, the men pulled him from the corner, grasping tight to his thin wrists. "What, you don't have any pretty little presents for us?" Jehan squeezed his eyes shut, trying to keep them from watering. He held his breath, as the men reached into his pockets, trying to find anything worth taking. "Babet, Brujon, leave the guy alone. It's fucking 11 pm on a Thursday, and we've already gotten what we needed today." His gaze bore into them, until they released Jehan's shaking arms. "We were just joking around Montparnasse, get that stick out of your ass bro." They listened though and walked over back to where the other man was standing. Just then, the train came. The doors slide open, and Jehan moved to step in. He looked back at then man, Montparnasse, and the words "Thank you" barely escaped his throat before they caught against the roof of his mouth. The dark haired man raised one eyebrow a bit before slightly nodding. The door slid shut again, and the train took off, transporting Jehan back to the safety of lower Manhattan.

He buzzed into Courfeyrac's apartment, because it was closer to the station than his own. In the voice of a small child, he mumbled, "please… Courf, let me in…" A loud beep sounded before the door swung open. Jehan clumsily made his way up the stairs, still shaken. At the top of the stairs stood Courfeyrac, wide eyed. The red highlights in his dark hair were prominent under the florescent lights, and it made him appear even more surprised. "Holy shit Jehan…" Bruises were already beginning to flower where the two men had gripped him earlier, clear prints unveiling themselves along his slender forearms. Courfeyrac led him inside, and gently set him down on the couch. He pulled out an old VCR tape of The Lion King, because Jehan swore the quality was better than on the DVD, and set it to play. He made ginger tea and sat while Jehan sat curled into himself. Courfeyrac distracted him with stories of his latest conquest, a curvy young ingénue named Jolene. He talked of the drama going on between Eponine, Marius, and the new blond who had recently joined the cause. He spoke of a fight that had occurred between Enjolras and Grantaire earlier in the evening, over how to properly staple a pamphlet. At that one, Jehan finally let out a small giggle. He sat up on the couch and pulled the ribbon from his hair.

As he let the curls fall down around his face, he began to tell the night's tale. "Why is their no trust in the world, Courf? There is beauty everywhere if you look hard enough, and yet people still hurt. Why is that?" The question was more hypothetical than anything. He sighed, twisting his hair around his fingers. "There was one thing though, those two men tried to mug me and their friend told them off…he saved me quite a bit." That night, lying on Courfeyrac's couch, he transposed his thoughts into verse, sullen and morose, a drastic shift from his normal romantic air.

Weeks passed before any of his friends let Jehan venture back to the bar on 11th street, insisting that he study with Combeferre, or accompany Grantaire to make sure that he did not end up dead on the side of the streets. The bruises faded and so did his worries, as he slipped back into the bright Jehan Prouvaire, romantic poet extraordinaire. Finally he convinced them to give him back his freedom. Although he was short and rather sleight, he was still an adult. As the night grew to a close, he tentatively stepped into the station. He stopped in his tracks. Directly in front of him stood Montparnasse, wearing the same leather jacket. Jehan turned on his heels to leave, but hesitated.

The man stood alone. In fact, he seemed totally oblivious to the presence of another human in the small station. Jehan approached the tracks and stood on the edge, peering over to distract himself. When he realized that there would be no confrontation, he stepped back and situated himself against the concrete wall. He attempted to write another flyer for Enjolras, but his attention kept being drawn to the man. His eyes were closed, head slightly tilted back. Jehan observed his strong neckline, short dark hair, and pale skin. His hands were calloused and rough. It was barely noticeable, but Jehan could see his body shift slightly in time. He listened closely, to hear a soft humming. It sounds like that band that Feuilly likes, The Smiths, Jehan thought. Montparnasse snapped to attention, just a second before the train came rushing through. He looked over with a rough glance, before softening at the sight of Jehan, in his paisley leggings and tangerine smock, his hair braded with lavender blossoms. He seemed to catch a chuckle in his throat before rolling his eyes at his own thought and stepping on the train.

The second time Jehan ran into Montparnasse alone was much like the first. He observed, they shared a few glances, and Jehan blushed, turning back to his notebook to finish another verse. And this was why the 11th street station became his favorite. The other men had not returned to the station since that first time, and Jehan was no longer worried about the dangers. Even so, he kept a can of pepper spray on hand, just in case. He came to share a rapport with this stranger every Thursday night. For months they would arrive, sometimes Jehan first and sometimes the other man. Neither would speak. Jehan would write and observe, and Montparnasse would rest his head against the wall and listen to music, trying to forget the horrors of the day. As different as they seemed, they were all too similar while waiting for the 11:34 express.


	2. The opposite of love's indifference

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> yet he was intrepid.

"I'll be right back Combeferre, I'm just gonna step outside for a few." Jehan slid open the door and slipped out into the cool autumn air. He desperately needed to escape the party. Courfeyrac's parties were always fun, but sometimes they just became too crowded. The boy invited practically everyone he came upon in the streets. Always the socialite, Jehan thought of his best friend. As much as he loved social interaction, Jehan needed a quiet moment.

He was still a bit shaken from earlier in the evening, when he had opened the door for Courfeyrac, who was busy bringing in the booze with Grantaire. He unlocked it and looked out. A tall man wearing a leather jacket stood there glancing at his watch impatiently. He didn't look up when the door swung open. "I need to talk to Eponine Thenardier and I've heard she's here…oh," He blinked a few times, now staring at Jehan. "You're the guy from the train station," Jehan raised an eyebrow, wondering if he was going to say anything else. He didn't, instead just edging his way into the room around Jehan.

It was bizarre, seeing his dark muse somewhere other than the station. Perplexing enough to cause the sudden need for air. Outside, he reached into his pocket to pull out a joint that he'd picked up earlier in the day. Although he wasn't one to smoke often, Jehan had no problem with a little bit of enhanced creativity once in a while. He lit up and let the smoke fill his up his lungs before breathing out again. His mind began to clear and his thoughts returned to the man, Montparnasse, his friends had called him. What was he doing looking for Eponine?

Curiosity got the better of him and he peeked back into the room. Montparnasse had edged Eponine into a corner, and seemed to want something from her. She kept shaking her head, and Grantaire approached behind the two. They seemed to argue, before Montparnasse put up his hands and turned back towards Eponine. Jehan's mind began to wander again, as he turned away from the drama unfolding.

He took another drag, letting the sweet smoke surround him. Some people found the smell disgusting, but it reminded Jehan of summer and of love and of romance. His reverie was interrupted just then by the door sliding opened. Montparnasse was on the phone and didn't see him leaning against the railing on the far end of the patio. The disruption caused Jehan to forget to breathe in a second time. The smoke burned down his throat. He coughed abruptly.

Montparnasse glanced over at him and continued talking, " –no, she wouldn't come with me. I don't know, she said she was with some guy. No, I'm done for the night," he paused looking over again, and this time their eyes locked for a second, "Look Thenardier, I gotta go. You still owe me. Pay up, or I'm done," He flipped the old cell phone shut and shoved it in his pocket. "Hey, could I take a hit? I need to calm down a bit before I get home." Jehan handed the joint over and they took turns finishing it.

They were used to the silence between them, but Jehan still felt uncomfortable. He turned to leave, but stepped back and forced himself to talk. "I...I never properly thanked you for helping me…" he stammered, a rose color spreading from his cheeks all the way to his ears.

"It wasn't a big deal. Those guys we're being assholes. My name's Alex by the way. Alex Montparnasse. But I prefer Parnasse."

"Jean Prouvaire, but you can call me Jehan." He leaned back onto the heels of his chunky black boots before standing up straight again. "If you don't mind me asking…what were you doing in there with Eponine?"

Parnasse sighed, "I only came to find her cause her dad wanted something." Jehan looked skeptical, "She looked really upset when you walked in, and so did Grantaire." Parnasse bit his lip, "We used to be together but it got messy and ended really badly. It doesn't matter though cause it's over." The man looked over at him again, his dark eyes daring. Jehan remained quiet, not wanted to press further.

He couldn't be sure, but he had a pretty good feeling that this guy was interested. He wasn't one to label sexuality. If anything, he preached free love as long as all who were involved were happy. This thought is what possessed the normally shy Jehan to press Parnasse against the wall and kiss him hard on the mouth. Without any hesitation, Parnasse kissed him back just as hard. They fell into each other, the high from the weed slowing down their movements and thoughts.

They struggled for power against each other. Although short and rather slender, Jehan was far stronger than he looked. Parnasse had always considered himself the dominant one, but when they had finally made their way to the guest bedroom inside, he was proven very wrong by the deep bite marks that Jehan had left along his collarbone. Jehan was no gentle little flower child under the covers.

In the morning, Jehan awoke to an empty bed. On the table, Parnasse had left a scribbled note with his phone number on it. Call me if you want, it read. Jehan was giddy. After writing about romance for so long, maybe he would get a real taste. Of course, he had loved before, but this seemed a bit forbidden, considering that Parnasse was Eponine's ex. He knew it might be a point of contention, but considering how enamored with Marius she had been the night before, Jehan wasn't too worried.

He climbed out of the bed and found his metallic skinny jeans crumpled in the corner. His hair was in knots, so he sat for a few minutes to untangle it and then tied it back with a green ribbon. Considering he was most likely the only one in the apartment who didn't have a horrible hangover, he had no qualms about going into Courfeyrac's kitchen to start some breakfast. Banana pancakes could never go wrong, especially among this crowd. Before he got up however, he pulled out his journal to write down a few things about the night before. Danger, he wrote. Power. Lust. Want. Violence. Risk. He continued the list down the page. These were all of the things the night before had delivered that he had been sorely lacking.

Yes, he was sensitive and petite and easily distracted by beauty, but he was not fragile. His friends were overprotective, assuming that he would get hurt easily. Maybe what made Parnasse so seductive was the innate feeling of control that he gained by going for someone so very different. Before he lost the nerve, he texted the number, Last night was fun, I'd be up for it again if you want, and hit send.

Jehan was surprised to find Grantaire of all people sitting in the kitchen with a cup of coffee, nursing a hangover. He had bags under his eyes. "Long night?" Jehan asked, knowing the answer already, "It would be so fucking nice if he acknowledged that I exist, you know? Like, if he actually cared about me. That would be great." Grantaire sighed and stirred his coffee, "But I heard you had a good night, which innocent girl was taken into your love chamber this time? You do know that everyone wants to sleep with you, right?" He chuckled.

Jehan blushed a deep scarlet. "I actually…um, well I sort of… slept with Alex Montparnasse…" He said it all in one breath before he could stop himself. Courfeyrac stepped into the doorway, "Eponine's ex? I didn't know he was into dudes." Grantaire shook his head, "That guy is bad news Jehan. Seriously, he works for Eponine's dad, and you know how shitty he is."

Jehan rolled his eyes, "Look, I'm 21 years old, I think I can decide who I want to sleep with ok?" Grantaire look up from his coffee, "All I'm saying is that Eponine's tough and this guy got to her. So be fucking careful." Courfeyrac walked past the two, reaching for a mug, "How do you even know this guy? Or was he just at the party last night and you hooked up. I don't think I even saw him." The edge of a smile played on Jehan's lips, "Remember the guy who protected me in the train station? Yeah it's the same guy." Courfeyrac looked surprised.

Just then Jehan's phone vibrated. If you come to my place, I'll fuck you so hard you won't even remember yesterday. He blushed even deeper than before. "He has your number? Are you honestly serious about this?" Grantaire groaned. Jehan tried channeling his nerve again, Or maybe you won't get a chance because I'll be making you beg, He giggled and tucked the phone away. The two boys looked at him questioningly. "What, I can't have any fun?"

Courfeyrac squinted, "I don't know, just, I've seen you hurt before and he seems rough." "Well I know I can deal with it. He's sweet and tough and beautiful and he likes The Smiths!" Jehan said defensively. "Do you even know two songs by The Smiths?" Grantaire looked at him skeptically. Before he could respond, the phone vibrated again. Is that a challenge? Jehan smirked before responding Only if you want it to be. See you tonight xx.


	3. So pay attention now, I'm standing on your porch screaming out

Jehan fiddled with the wire snaking out from his headphones. He ran his thumb over his teeth. Although he was typically a patient person, able to distract himself with the nervous running of his own mind, the anxiety of the day was eating him whole. It was cold, frigid enough that he could see his own breath, and his thick army jacket wasn't doing much good. His knees shook. There is no reason to be nervous, he tried to convince himself. But there was, and he knew it. It was his first real date with Montparnasse.

Although they had been sleeping together for the better part of two months, they had yet to go out. Surprisingly, it had been Montparnasse who had finally asked him to get dinner. It had been one night, as Parnasse escorted Jehan out to the subway station. He looked around, wary of any shady figures. It was nearing midnight however, and the station was deserted. Wind chill shook their bones and they clung to each other, waiting for the train in silence. Montparnasse cleared his throat; "You should come with me tomorrow night to dinner." He smirked. "I'll pick you up at 7." He didn't give Jehan much of a chance to respond. Instead he kissed him hard on the mouth and turned to walk out of the station.

That's where Jehan was now, at 8:47, splayed across the bench near his apartment. His watch kept ticking, unaware of the importance of the night. He pulled out a pen, and began to write on his wrists. He penned haikus about the importance of time and the dignity of a single second, and about the ache of being forgotten. The words flowed out of him and ran down his arms until black ink was smeared everywhere.

"You have ink on your nose." He heard a gritty voice call out. Jehan looked up and bit his lip, as anger filled his vision. He rose up onto his toes so that he could face Montparnasse's stature. The taller boy kept his calm gaze steady. He licked his finger before pressing it flat against the light spattering of freckles that dotted Jehan's nose. He rubbed gently, his finger staining dark from the ink. His smoky cologne pervaded the air around them. Jehan let out a small gasp and stepped back. Parnasse reached into the inside pocket of his Brioni blazer and pulled out a single red rose.

"You think you can woo me with your gestures of romance and your braided promises? I am not some silly little school miss that you can forget about. I am different. And when you say seven, maybe you should deign me with your presence." A piece of hair fell out of his braid and he brushed it aside. His eyes were alight. Montparnasse raised his eyebrow, seemingly impressed.

"You are no fragile flower, Jehan Prouvaire. You are… interesting. And I apologize for my lack of punctuality. I was held up. Business got in the way. I am here now though. And I still request that you accompany me to dinner." It was not phrased as a question. Montparnasse did not ask questions. Jehan however could hear the enquiry, as well as the sincerity, in his voice. Warmth spread throughout his chest despite the cold. "But are you really wearing that?" Jehan looked down at his oversized floral sweater, army jacket, and light wash skinny jeans.

"Of course I am. There is nothing wrong with a little color." Montparnasse glanced down at his own black ensemble before his pressed lips split into a smile.

He hooked onto Jehan by the elbow and led him down into the subway. They took the train down to a small Indian neighborhood. Jehan clung onto him the whole time and Parnasse barely protested, only once removing the hands that gripped his arm. They walked into a dingy underground shop, and Montparnasse greeted the owner by name. The room was low-lit and smelled of cinnamon and curry.

They were led to a small table in the back. Orange and violet curtains were draped across the wooden beams above them, along with strands of beads. It was unconventional and kitschy, exactly the sort of place that Jehan would frequent on his unplanned forays around the city. He was surprised by the choice. With all of Parnasse's extravagances, he would've expected high class; a fancy restaurant with a wine list. This however, was perfect.

Jehan took the seat against the wall and Montparnasse slid his own lithe body in so that their shoulders were pressed against each other. Their conversation was easy. Well, conversation would not be the right word. Parnasse spoke and Jehan listened. He told tales of the city, of culture, of places he had traveled, and of fashion. The waiter came and went, and he ordered for the two of them.

Although he had an affinity for words, Jehan liked to listen to Parnasse speak. He enjoyed the minutiae that were weaved into the little stories and he inhaled the confidence that Parnasse exuded. Sitting in the tiny restaurant, Jehan could taste the sweet difference between regularity and this new danger. He knew that he was romanticizing the whole thing, but he didn't really care.

Dinner finally came and they continued talking. Jehan preoccupied himself with his water, spinning the ice cubes around with a fork. He took a small bite of the chicken, allowing the spices to envelope his tongue and throat. He swallowed hard, trying to forgo the force that was normally required. This time, it was Jehan's turn to talk. He spoke of his major, of literature, and of the ABC and their current endeavors. He went on about the power of words, all the while cutting the food on his plate into fourths, than eights, and finally sixteenths.

Montparnasse finished his own dish and let Jehan continue speaking as he paid the check. He said nothing of the almost full plate still sitting on the table, covered in a crumpled napkin. Instead, he took the other boy by the arm and led him outside, where the snow powdered the ground. They wandered around, ducking into coffee shops for warmth and coffee occasionally, but otherwise letting the dusting of snow accumulate in their hair.

When they finally made their way back to the apartment, it was past two. The streetlamps cast a dull illumination onto the littered sidewalk. The snow from earlier had already begun to melt, leaving dirty slush everywhere. Jehan was wary; this part of town wasn't really known to be safe at this time of night. Men with thick accents stood at some of the corners, their coats black and heavy, as they completed their business. Once in a while he heard a loud conversation permeating the serenity of pre-dawn New York City. He glanced up to see a few stars peaking through the smog, not many, not even enough to name a constellation, just enough to serve as a small reminder of a greater unknown.

Montparnasse gripped Jehan's hand tighter, pulled himself up straight, and held his head up high as they passed the shady figures. He finally reached the apartment and jerked his key hard into the rusted lock until it clicked. He pushed hard to force the door to open, and almost lost his balance when he realized it was slightly ajar.

"Montparnasse, I've been waiting all night for the delivery and—" A balding, rotund man sat on a brown leather couch, much nicer than the grey walls surrounding it. He glanced over at the two men standing in the doorway, and raked his eyes over Jehan. "Who the fuck is this?" He rose from the chair, swaying a bit to keep steady. His eyes were blood shot. "I expected you to come alone, not bring your little girlfriend." Jehan looked down, his mangled hair covering his features. He could feel a presence behind him, and glanced back to see a brawny man towering over him. He skidded forward a bit, to allow the man to pass by him, all the while hiding his face.

"Jehan…get behind me." Montparnasse whispered almost inaudibly. He faced the two men, "I have your money and the goods. The delivery went smoothly." He offered them a smooth smile before pulling a black checkbook from his pocket, but the stout man swiped it out of his hands as soon as it appeared.

"You've been working on credit for a while now boy, you need to deliver. " He handed the checkbook to the brute behind him, who promptly ripped it in half. Montparnasse raised his eyebrow slightly, his only physical reaction thus far. The man continued, stepping closer. "No more bounced checks. We need some…compensation. Something to hold us over until you can get us the money." He glanced back towards Jehan, who was trembling behind Montparnasse.

"She is very pretty." The other man wrapped his thick fingers firmly around Jehan's wrist. "No tits though." He jerked the boy close and bent down to his ear. "Why don't you let us see what we're working with girlie…" His breath was sour, and Jehan tried to move his face away. The thug dragged a grubby fingernail across Jehan's cheek, leaving a thin white line, and swiped the dirty blond hair out of his eyes. He squinted hard, taking in the sharp jawline and slight stubble on the boy's face. "Oh my god Alex, I never took you for a fag." He gave a hearty laugh and shoved Jehan to the floor.

Everything whirled into a blur, and before Jehan had even hit the ground, Montparnasse was holding a switchblade against the man's neck. A thin trail of blood ran down from where he was pressing.

"If you so much as touch him, I will slit your throat right here and now." A grin was plastered on his face. Although the man was broader and taller, Montparnasse possessed a frightening presence, and when combined with his deadly tone, it was clear that he was dangerous.

The stout man lumbered over and swung a fist at Montparnasse, but the lanky man was faster and jerked his foot out, landing it with a sharp crack on the thug's kneecap. He crumpled down. Montparnasse held a firm grip on the larger man as he attempted to wriggle out of his grasp. Finally, he swung himself loose. The two wrestled for a few minutes, trying to get control over each other. With a swift jab, Montparnasse knocked the other man backwards towards the table. He pulled himself up and stood steady. Both men had blood on their faces, and both had dull red welts peppering their skin, sure to fade to blue-gray by morning. They stood a few feet apart, eyes deadly, looking for any weakness.

Jehan had propped himself up on to his elbows and took a deep breath. He hiked himself off the floor. He could see the fat man, now somewhat recovered from the blow to his knee, getting up off the ground at the same time and preparing to lunge towards Parnasse. He shot up and jumped between the two. This put him directly into the line of impact of the man's fist, and he was flung backwards on to the ground. The two men then ran directly into each other, a move almost straight out of an old cartoon, and ended up sprawled out on the floor as well.

"Don't fucking move." The men gasped a bit as they stood back up and tried to look tough, despite the gun being pointed at them. Montparnasse leaned against a dresser, his sly grin returning, as the men realized who had the upper hand. "You can't play in my house if you don't play by my rules. You tell your boss that I get three days to get the money. End of story. And if I ever see the two of you around here again, I will send him the money inside your carved out skulls." With anyone else, this threat may have seemed unrealistic, but the devilish glint in Montparnasse's eyes that proved he meant business.

The men glared at him but didn't protest. Instead, they hobbled out, one holding his knee and the other rubbing his neck. It was only after the door slammed shut behind them that Jehan let out a short gasp. He still lay crumpled in the corner where he had been thrown, and now began to sit up. He looked straight ahead, eyes completely out of focus, staring at nothing.

"Jehan." Montparnasse called softly. When this didn't elicit a response, he called again, slightly louder, "Jehan, look at me." he bent down to his level and grasped him firmly. "That is why I don't want you involved in my work." Jehan glanced up, still thoroughly overwhelmed. Montparnasse took the silent boy from the floor and helped him to the leather couch. His lip was split and a bruise was beginning to blossom around his right eye, which was bloodshot and bleary.

Jehan lay there while Montparnasse got him an ice pack from the kitchen. He stared at the ceiling and sorted his words and found he couldn't think of any. The disoriented silence drove into his mind as he tried to string together phrases. He finally resigned himself to the numb feeling, and attempted to focus on the physical. He squinted from the burning feeling emanated from his eye. He listened while Parnasse made a hushed phone call in the other room. The man returned and kissed him lightly on the forehead, before leaving through the front door. The worst part though was the emptiness he felt encroaching him, the loneliness and the physical pain that kept him pinned to his sort-of boyfriend's couch. By the time his mind stopped running, dull light was beginning to leak through the drawn curtains.


End file.
